First Impressions
by CassandraRoseCrane
Summary: How Miranda Priestly met her fourth husband.


**First Impressions **

He is looking at you again. You realize this as you purposely turn away from the man standing in the corner, across the room from you. His eyes have been following you for a good part of the night, as you've moved around the room, socializing with different people. He has been staring you up and down, seemingly every chance he gets, unless he happens to be in conversation with one of the people lingering around him; you've realized this because you've often turned to confirm the feeling that someone was watching you and looked directly into his eyes.

You must admit that he has not been looking at you in a lustful, degrading way; instead, his gaze is closer to being appreciative, inquisitive. However, you have received more than enough of both kinds of stares in your lifetime. You have never been flattered by such unabashed admiration, and tonight is no different.

You wonder why, at his age, he is still so blatantly obvious with his staring. He seems to belong here, along with you, in the room full of affluent, successful people, but he apparently lacks the tact that you are confident most of the men here possess. You refuse to let his looks get under your skin, remaining indifferent to the sensation of his eyes on you. Yet, you are unable to stop yourself from feeling slightly annoyed by his complete lack of subtlety, his presence ruining what would have been a perfectly enjoyable night, otherwise. He could at least have the courtesy to _try_ to hide the fact that he is staring at you.

You have not given him the pleasure of showing any emotion upon meeting his eyes previously, but you choose to confront him after looking back over your shoulder and finding that he is indeed staring at you again_. _You fix him with the most withering glare you can manage. Much to your surprise, the man returns your look with confidence. He smiles when your eyes meet, and it turns to a smirk when you refuse to acknowledge his conceited grin. Shrugging to himself, he turns and says something to a woman standing near him, making her laugh. Perhaps he will choose to spend the rest of the night focusing his attention on someone who wishes to receive it. The Botox-filled redhead hanging on his every word seems to be a likely candidate.

You turn your back on his bothersome, albeit handsome, countenance and wander off to find the woman to blame for your being subjected to the gazes of the mysterious stranger. Your friend, Vanessa, has invited you to stay at her Beverly Hills mansion for a much-needed vacation. Her only request in return for sharing her luxurious home with you and your daughters was that you attend an Independence Day party with her, since her husband is out of town, on location with the movie that he is currently directing. So, you slipped into a new Oscar de la Renta, tucked Cassidy and Caroline into bed early- much to their protests- and accompanied her to the home of a mutual friend.

Unfortunately for you, you have just realized that Vanessa seems to be under the impression that it is her duty to find a new husband for you, now that your divorce to Stephen is official. You have no interest in meeting potential spouses so soon after the demise of your last marriage, but Vanessa is willful and persistent- helpful personality traits that have enabled her to remain close friends with you for the years that you have known one another- and she refuses to be deterred from introducing you to a man she claims is "just perfect" for you.

Only, you have yet to meet this _amazing _man, which is why you are searching for your friend. Vanessa seemed determined to introduce you to this person when she spoke about him to you earlier; you hope to make his acquaintance quickly so that afterwards you can attempt to escape the night's festivities. You are in no mood to celebrate and are tired of the Hollywood set. Cassidy and Caroline will more than likely still be awake when you get back to them and want to read some of the new _Harry Potter _book with you.

You happen to catch sight of your reflection in the spotless glass of a set of French doors. You pause there, staring through the glass to the moonlit patio outside. Vanessa does not seem to realize, like the man from earlier, that the lot of you are middle-aged. You have no time for childish games, or matchmaking. You have your career to worry about, your children to take care of.

You've almost had your position at _Runway_ snatched right out from under your nose once before by someone much less capable than you; you will not let it happen again. You refuse to let that happen, refuse to put your future and that of your daughters in limbo because you happen to be a single parent (again).

Considering your age and reputation, if _Runway_ were snatched from you, you would probably wind up in a mindless managerial position at the top level of Elias-Clark, where aging giants of the publishing world are sent to finish out their careers. That would be a pitiable fate for someone like you, who lives to be in control and in action constantly, creating something. If a man happens to find his way in to your life along side Cassidy, Caroline, and _Runway_, that is fine, but you have more important things to do than to go looking for him.

You are startled out of your thoughts when you notice the reflection of another next to yours in the glass. Frustrated, you turn abruptly to face him, looking directly at him rather than at his reflection. He stares back at you unflinchingly with his intense hazel eyes.

"What?" you snap.

If he is taken aback by your harshness, he does not show it. Instead, he simply extends a hand. "Hello. I'm Jonathan." You ignore his gesture and continue to glare at him. He withdraws his hand when he realizes that you are not going to take it. "Is something wrong?"

"Of course not. I quite enjoy it when people spend a good part of the night staring at me repeatedly from across a room."

There is that smile again. "I didn't mean any offense. I don't know how to explain it. I just felt drawn to you."

"How nice," you reply, bored.

"You're not from here."

Well. Who would have ever guessed that? "And what made you come to that conclusion?"

He smirks slightly in acknowledgement of your sarcasm, gesturing to the other women mingling around the room. "Obviously, you're a bit different from many of the women-"

"I am content with my appearance," you interrupt. "I might not resemble them in every way, but they, as long as they have a shred of class, look to me every season to set the guidelines for their appearances. Perhaps you should go bother the _other _women if you don't feel the same way."

He chuckles and shakes his head. "You're taking things the wrong way. I only meant that you're dressed differently from them," he says, his eyes darting between your classic, black ensemble and sheer, silver wrap, and the bright, complicated creations worn by many of the other women in the room. "That hinted to me that you're not from here. I'm not either, and I find your appearance a refreshing change."

His suavity irritates you almost as much as his staring. This conversation should have been over long ago. "And I would find it a refreshing change if you would leave me alone," you say.

"If that's what you want," he states, unconcerned, and steps around you. You are happily surprised to see him go so willingly. Then he places his hand on your shoulder as he walks past you. His touch is warm against your skin. You flinch, but he does not remove his hand as he speaks to you. "I'd like to talk to you later, if you're in the mood for a civil conversation." His tone is teasing, only serving to make you dislike him more. Finally, the light pressure of his hand leaves your arm as he walks away.

Grateful to be out of the presence of the man who calls himself Jonathan, you continue to walk through the room, hoping that he won't be able to find you again if you get far enough away from him. Now there are other people watching you, you note as you go along your way. They, too, are noticing how you stand apart from their kind. They know who you are, you are sure of that, and they are wondering why you are there when you have the poise and sophistication they lack, and none of their flash, their glitter.

A number of people are courageous enough to attempt to talk to you as you walk through the room. You recognize many of them since you've come into contact with them, in one way or another, through the work you do with _Runway. _You chat with them because they're too important not to talk to. After all, events like this are all about enabling one to keep up appearances. When you are able to politely do so, you excuse yourself, saying that you need to find a friend of yours.

Eventually, you spot Vanessa. She is perched on an armchair, draped in red Chanel, in conversation with a popular actor who has worked with her husband several times. She notices you and quickly ends the conversation, getting up to walk over to you. She can't stand the actor; he apparently has been very rude and demanding in the past when he has worked with her production company.

Upon your arrival in California, you were happy to find that she had not lost the style and elegance she has possessed ever since you first met her, when you were both in your mid-twenties. You encouraged her to pursue a career in fashion back then; like you, she seemed to understand what it took to succeed in that world, but it never captivated her the way it did you. Later, you began to think that her refusal to be involved with fashion in that way was for the best; you have never been one to befriend your competition.

Instead, she discovered her niche when she took a film-making course in college. She began to study the cinematic arts in earnest around the time you first met her, became acquainted with her future husband through her classes, and moved with him across the country upon their graduation. You were saddened when she left New York, but understood that she had to follow her dreams. After all, you would have expected the same consideration if you had been in her shoes. At least you have opportunities like this to visit her, and she always drops by when she comes to Manhattan, since her son is at NYU.

"There you are," Vanessa says as she takes your arm and guides you away, sounding highly relived to have found an excuse to escape from the obnoxious leading man. "Are you having fun?" The look you give her must hint at how ridiculous the question is, because she starts to laugh, and pulls you aside so that you can talk to one another without being overheard. She views you with concern. "Has it really been that bad? I know you don't care for this set- God knows I don't like half of them, either- but I thought you might at least find a few interesting people to talk to."

"I suppose there are some tolerable people here," you admit, "but I haven't been fortunate enough to meet them. My time was taken up by an arrogant stranger who cornered me, and who seemed to be under the impression that I was dying to have conversation with him because our eyes happened to meet earlier when he kept staring at me."

She is laughing again. She never was one to be very compassionate. Then again, neither are you. "My dear, considering our ages, I would take it as a compliment if I caught a man staring at me."

Vanessa does have a point there, though you would never tell her you think so. It wasn't like the man watching you was bad-looking, either, but still . . . "You know I've never been flattered by such things. And you're a shameless flirt, anyway."

"A shameless flirt who is happily married," she reminds you quickly, brushing a tendril of dark brown hair away from her face. "The same cannot be said for you. It's high time you dropped that act of yours and opened yourself to love."

"I've only been divorced for several months-" you start to say.

"None of your marriages have contained the kind of love I was referring to, and you know it," she says in a steely tone that rivals the way your own voice can sound at times. You know of no one else who could get away with saying such things to you. But no one else has been a faithful friend to you for nearly half of your life, either. "There's a man I know of who I think you would enjoy meeting. You have quite a few things in common-"

Ah, here it is. The moment you have been dreading. "I know where this is headed," you say with an eye roll.

She ignores your lack of enthusiasm. "Then let's not waste any more time. We'll go find him now." She grabs your wrist without giving you a chance to respond and pulls you along after her.

"I really would rather not."

"You know I have a talent for these things. Just give me- and him- a chance."

You sigh and continue to follow her reluctantly through the room.

"There he is," she says as she spots someone. With all of the people mingling about, you are unable to see who she is looking at.

Before you have a chance to try to follow her gaze, your eyes fall on unwelcome company. The man named Jonathan is quickly approaching you. "Oh no," you mutter under your breath. "Not again."

"What is it?" Vanessa asks, raising one perfectly shaped eyebrow. You turn to answer her, but once you do, you find that she has become distracted by someone she is looking at over your shoulder. "Good. He's coming over here." Apparently, the man who she wanted to introduce you to is also on his way. You are grateful, at least temporarily, for his presence. Perhaps he can intercept you before Jonathan arrives.

"Hello, Miranda," a voice says from behind you. The voice is still new to you, but it already seems horrifyingly familiar for some reason. You turn around quickly. Sure enough, he is standing there, extending his hand, just as he did before.

For a minute, you don't understand. Where is this other man? Why didn't Jonathan mention that he knew who you were earlier? Then, you catch sight of Vanessa's encouraging face, looking from you to Jonathan. Oh God. _He _is the man she intended to introduce you to.

He takes advantage of your surprise and reaches forward to take your hand in his in a firm, but gentle grip and shakes it cordially. You make no response, but tug your hand away as soon as you are able to get your wits about you.

"Miranda," Vanessa's voice cuts through your thoughts. "I'd like to introduce you to Jonathan Anderson."

"We've already met," you state icily.

"Yes," he confirms. "We had the pleasure of making one another's acquaintance earlier tonight."

"But I thought . . . I don't understand. " Her green eyes dart back and forth between the both of you, noticing the amused expression on his face and the unhappy look that must be on your own, and then the realization dawns. Her next statement simply echoes your earlier one: "Oh no."

Needless to say, the night ends very quickly after that. Vanessa is silent on the ride back to her house; she knows you well and realizes that any attempt to make amends for what happened will only fall on deaf ears. She mentions something about going shopping on Rodeo Drive the next morning before she disappears upstairs. You murmur your acceptance of the invitation.

As expected, Cassidy and Caroline burst into your room shortly after you arrive back at the mansion, brandishing their books. You give in and they pile into bed with you, one girl on each side of you. They are asleep before you are able to finish reading one chapter to them. You close the book, put it on the nightstand, and turn off the lights. It is comforting having them here with you, two precious people who will always love you and need you, no matter what. There are very few people in the world who feel that way about you. There are also very few people in the world who you will always love and need, no matter what. Your daughters happen to be two of them.

You lie down in between them and quickly start to drift off to sleep, too. Memories of the party float through your mind. As you clearly told him, you do not live in California. He also said that he lived elsewhere. Soon you will both return to your respective homes, far away from one another. The last thing you can remember before falling asleep is being very thankful that you will never have to see the man named Jonathan again.

FIN


End file.
